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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24294223">and we kissed as the sky fell in</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/medumyce/pseuds/medumyce'>medumyce</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice (1988), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Beetlejuice (1988) Fusion, M/M, aziraphale and crowley are married, flagrant disrespect of modern art, this is a weird beetlejuice crossover/fusion thing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:28:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,080</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24294223</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/medumyce/pseuds/medumyce</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale and Anthony, recently deceased, are in need of an exorcism.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and we kissed as the sky fell in</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was all going to be perfect. It was supposed to be perfect. Aziraphale’s library was waiting to be finished, boxes of books still standing. Anthony’s garden flourished in the backyard. Moving into the country was supposed to be their reset on life, an opportunity to settle down and have the kind of time they didn’t have in London. There were going to be visits to the beach and long drives at midnight and recipes to try and millions of tiny things stacking up to form Their Life. Aziraphale had bought a scrapbook, for God’s sake. </p><p>And things were good for a few months. But it was odd how a minor hiccup could become the delimiter that separated the halves of their life. It was odd how so small an action (a cat runs into the road) and its equally-sized reaction (Anthony swerves to avoid it) could end one thing and begin another. It wasn’t an end, really; it was just a change. </p><p>They ended up back home, although neither one could remember how they got there. It was less like blinking and suddenly being somewhere else and more like blinking and realizing you’ve forgotten the past hour or so. </p><p>“Darling, what’s this?” Aziraphale said. He was holding a book, and read from the cover: “Handbook for the Recently Deceased?” </p><p>“What does that mean?” Anthony asked nervously. His husband was nervous too, he could tell: Aziraphale’s free hand fluttered lightly, like it didn’t know what to do with itself. “I don’t remember that being there.”</p><p>“It’s—it’s something the previous owners left,” Aziraphale decided. “And we didn’t notice until now.”</p><p>Anthony’s eyebrows drew up. “But you remember how we cleaned the place. I dunno, maybe we saw it earlier and forgot about it? Why don’t I believe that?”</p><p>Aziraphale dropped the book, and crossed the room to where Anthony was. He took cold, slender hands in his own warm ones and squeezed them gently. “Are you scared? Because I am, a little, but I don’t know why.”</p><p>Anthony made an unintelligible noise. “‘M going outside.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Got a bad feeling about this.”</p><p>Aziraphale trailed behind him to the front door. “I’m sure it’s perfectly explainable,” he said.</p><p>“Sure it is.” Anthony wrenched the door open and froze.</p><p>The landscape was not Tadfield; it was not even England. It was sand. Sand for miles, as far as Anthony could possibly see. The sky was too big, too blue; there were no clouds to hold onto. Its enormity was oppressive. Huge, snakelike animals dove between the shifting dunes like it was water. They were like no animal that existed on Earth: they were cartoonishly striped black-and-white, red eyes gleaming. One opened its mouth, and another head popped out from between the rows of wickedly sharp teeth.</p><p>Anthony blindly groped for Aziraphale’s hand behind him, unable to look away, and he screamed into the dunes and luridly blue void—an echoing sound. </p><p>Nobody but Aziraphale heard him.</p>
<hr/><p>The Sculpture entered the house before anything else that Harriet had created.</p><p>Warlock called it The Sculpture because he couldn’t really think of any other adjectives that properly described it. It almost looked like a cross between an insect and a fern, but three and a half feet tall. It had its own pedestal, the self-important bastard. Thus, it was The Sculpture, and everything else was named in accordance with the “Tall Skinny Thing 1” and “Weird Frog Guy” conventions. </p><p>The Sculpture loomed in the corner of the living room and stared at him. At least for the past few days the room had been somewhat normal, since the Dowlings hadn’t yet gotten around to replacing the old furniture with their new, artsy stuff. But now they had gotten everything covered in plastic and Warlock was mourning his ability to pretend that the sartorial choices of his dad’s girlfriend weren’t leaching into every crevice of his life.</p><p>“Warlock, would you get out of the way, please,” said Thaddeus Dowling, bumping into him with a furniture dolly. “We’re about to bring the couch in.”</p><p>“But we already have a couch.” </p><p>“That belonged to the people who lived here last, buddy,” his father explained with utmost patience, as he had already done once. </p><p>“I know, but I like it better.” Harriet’s couch was a sleek, angular thing that sort of looked like it belonged in, say, an expensive London apartment (sorry, <i>flat</i>), surrounded by dimly lit charcoal walls. Certainly not a Tudor style house in the country like the one Warlock was standing in. Also, he thought it looked ugly anyway.</p><p>“You know you can decorate your room any way you want,” Thaddeus said. </p><p>“Yeah, I <i>know</i> that.”</p><p>“You hardly ever leave your room anyway. I wonder why you care what the rest of the house looks like.”</p><p>Warlock situated the GameBoy between his face and his father’s. “I dunno,” he said eloquently after a few moments, since Thaddeus was still waiting for an answer. “I just don’t like it. I wish we could have <i>normal</i> furniture.”</p><p>“Normal is boring, buddy.” Thaddeus pushed the dolly out of the way and clapped his son on the shoulder. “Don’t you want to be different?”</p><p>“Not really. Also, I know you only like that couch ‘cause Ms. Halston does.”</p><p>“Can you please at least call her Harriet?”</p><p>“I don’t want to.”</p><p>Thaddeus frowned, and his moustache made the gesture look more serious than it really was. “You know it makes her sad, bud.”</p><p>“You know what makes <i>me</i> sad?” Warlock sniped. “My mom’s dead.” </p><p>Thaddeus nodded once, stiffly. “Yeah. Alright. I see how it is.”</p><p>At that, Warlock focused very intently on his video game. He’d already decided not to speak to his father for the rest of the day—possibly ever. Still, both of them considered it a victory: there hadn’t been any shouting. Thaddeus left his son to wallow; he didn’t know—had never known—what more there was to do.</p><p>“That was rather depressing,” Anthony whispered to his husband. He elbowed him in the side. “Good thing we never had kids.”</p><p>The two stood at the top of the stairs like proper ghosts, watching the family move in. “That’s not funny, Anthony,” said Aziraphale.</p><p>“I know. Sorry.”</p><p>“It’s alright. I do feel bad for him.”</p><p>“Er… I don’t know.” Anthony leaned heavily on the railing, turning towards him. “He’s just as guilty as Mum and Dad are, you know.”</p><p>“Of what?”</p><p>“Moving into <i>our</i> house.”</p><p>“You do know he’s thirteen, don’t you? It’s not like he had any say. Look,” Aziraphale said, gesturing down the stairs, “he hates it here.”</p><p>Anthony rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t hate it here. I’d act like that too, if my name was Warlock.”</p><p>“Don’t make fun, dear, he can’t control that either.”</p><p>“That’s not my <i>point,</i>” Anthony said. “My <i>point</i> is that they’re here when they shouldn’t be. Our house is haunted.”</p><p>“By us.”</p><p>“No, by them!” Anthony tipped his head towards Harriet, who had come in and was fussing over the couch. “And we need to get rid of them!”</p><p>Aziraphale looked really, truly affronted by that. “First of all, that is a positively terrible idea. Secondly—more importantly—I don’t think that’s possible. But even if it were,” he said, talking over Anthony’s attempted objection, “we <i>won’t</i> do it.”</p><p>“But what if we could?”</p><p>“Did you even listen to me? It’s morally wrong. It’s <i>rude</i>. We are dead, need I remind you.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know we’re dead. It’s just not fair,” Anthony groaned. “It’s gonna be hell with them around.”</p><p>“We’re far from hell, my dear; your aunt was absolutely wrong.” Aziraphale patted him on the cheek in a way that felt like it should have been vaguely patronizing, but was comforting instead. “Mm. Prickly. Do you think ghosts can shave?”</p><p>“I hope not. Make you deal with it forever.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, scratching his own smooth cheek. “I think it’s kind of… well.”</p><p>“<i>Don’t</i> start talking about—about the <i>sensory experience</i> or whatever it is.”</p><p>“No! I think it makes you look like those James Bond characters you always talk about, that’s all.”</p><p>Anthony blushed. “Really?”</p><p>“Of course, darling, the sensory experience is secondary.” Aziraphale’s grin quickly turned shit-eating. “If I keep complimenting you, will you forget about your silly… bio-exorcism thing?”</p><p>“Bio-exorcism? That’s one way to put it, I guess.” Anthony pushed off the railing and straightened up. “And of course not. You know me; I never stop.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“Gonna be the scariest ghost ever. The ones from <i>Poltergeist,</i> they’re gonna shit their pants when they see <i>me</i>. Ooh, we should watch that.”</p><p>“I’m sure they will.”</p><p>“I’m serious. I’m gonna scare this family of art weirdos out of here. Nobody will ever want to live here again. Kids will come here and tell stories about me.”</p><p>“You were always very ambitious, weren’t you.”</p><p>“I’m serious,” Anthony repeated. He had been pacing, but he rounded on his husband and cradled his face in his hands. “My love, we are going to be the most… <i>terrifying bastards ever.</i>” He kissed him, very briefly. </p><p>“Quit trying to convince me, you utter snake,” Aziraphale said once his eyes were open. “We can all live here at the same time—er, well. You know what I mean.”</p><p>“Sure we can. I just don’t want to. Alright. Look at it this way. If they stay, just think of what they’re going to do to your stuff.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s face fell. It was like kicking a puppy. “My stuff…? You don’t mean…”</p><p>“Mm-hm. Your <i>books,</i> angel. Got no room for old books in a house that looks like the inside of the Tate Modern. Probably start selling them tomorrow, if they don’t just dump them on the curb.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s mouth hung open for a few seconds, and Anthony could just see him thinking. His fists clenched and unclenched, and he said, in a low voice, “I don’t want that to happen. I worked very hard on that collection.”</p><p>“I know,” Anthony told him, “that’s why they can’t stay. It’ll be nothing but sculptures and leather couches unless we do something about it.”</p><p>Aziraphale said nothing. He wasn’t exactly convinced, and Anthony was guilty the moment he realized he’d only made things worse. Aziraphale was too much of a humanitarian to immediately jump on board with—with <i>eviction,</i> as Anthony was considering. Now he was stuck between the Dowlings and his books—his life’s work, his most prized possessions. Possessions weren’t everything, he knew, especially when one was dead, but he really couldn’t help but get attached. </p><p>Anthony rubbed his forehead. “Look, angel, I’m sorry,” he said. “They’re probably going to kill all my plants, too. Or, you know what, maybe they won’t. You saw Warlock; he looks like the kind of kid that would have an appreciation for books.”</p><p>“But I don’t want him to have my books. He won’t know how to take care of them; he’ll get oil all over the pages and—it doesn’t even matter; they’re <i>mine</i> anyway. It’s not fair.”</p><p>“Then we’ll—”</p><p>“But it’s still wrong to make them leave, taking into account that we’re dead.” </p><p>“Then I suppose we do nothing,” Anthony said.</p><p>“But I don’t want to do that, either.”</p><p>“Then what? You’ve backed us into a corner.”</p><p>Aziraphale looked wretched. “I’ll think about it,” he said. He poked Anthony in the chest. “And don’t try to convince me, because then I’ll want to do the other thing.”</p><p>“Alright, alright. We can talk about it... later, I guess.” If time still had meaning at all. Anthony took a long look at the very heterosexual tableau below them. He’d always felt that gay couples had unlocked some sort of awareness beyond any arbitrary relationship-related rules, and watching Harriet and Warlock and Thaddeus stiffly interact only made him more sure of himself. It was only a matter of time before things like <i>modern woman</i> and <i>it’s 1988, Thaddeus</i> would be aimed and fired, all while Harriet continued to wash and cook. He’d seen it happen to friends and it annoyed the hell out of him to watch. He really, truly hated this family. Aziraphale was right—it wasn’t fair. Not for anyone, it seemed. Now Warlock was hiding behind a dark curtain of straight, fine hair, and Thaddeus was throwing his hands up in the universal I-give-up gesture, so—</p><p>“I cannot be here right now,” Anthony mumbled. </p><p>“Anthony,” Aziraphale said, somewhat hysterically, “there’s nowhere else to go.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>honestly i don't have much of this mapped out at all so. let the adventure begin</p><p>(title from "pictures of you" by the cure!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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